


Othala

by Wallwalker



Category: Valkyrie Profile 2: Silmeria, Valkyrie Profile: Lenneth
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hrist doesn't mark all of her warriors, only the worthy ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Othala

"You have done well, my Einherjar."

Arngrim figured he was supposed to say something to that; Hrist didn't hand out compliments like that too often, from what he'd heard. But he wasn't going to, not after what she'd done. He just grunted and leaned back against the wall, his arms aching from the exertion. Dipan's army had been very well-trained, and he'd actually had to work for that victory, even with the new strength that his incarnation was somehow drawing from the Valkyrie's divine essence. He'd read stories about what Einherjar could do, but actually doing things like that himself was different.

He should've seen it coming; Leone had always seemed a little too excited around dead bodies, especially the ones they'd killed. But she hid it well enough that it hadn't been blatantly obvious, and quite frankly, Arngrim hadn't been looking. He'd gotten sloppy, he'd let his guard down, and just look where it had gotten him - standing by the wall of the keep of the strongest castle in Asgard, surrounded by men he'd killed, with Hrist standing far too close to him for comfort and obviously not backing away anytime soon.

He wasn't going to look rattled. Like hell. He didn't give a damn that she was a goddess. "You got what you wanted?" he said, trying to stare her down. It wasn't easy; her brown eyes had a half-mad look, and he really, really had to fight the urge to look away.

She said nothing, merely smiled and reached for him. For the merest instant he felt her fingernail against his arm, before the gentle scratch became searing, fiery pain. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to let her hear him scream, not to give her the satisfaction - she'd had enough, she wouldn't have any more, not from _him_ \- as the pain continued, tracing lines into his skin.

"There," she murmured as the pain began to fade to a manageable level. "Proof that you are mine."

"The hell?" He opened his eyes, twisting his neck to see the mark on his arm, a rune he did not recognize. "You brand all of your Einherjar, or am I special?"

"You are the first warrior to be taken by my own hand in many years. That is answer enough." She placed her hand against his gut, where the wound from her halberd would have been. He could feel the electricity of her touch even through his armor, and his body reacted, the pain mingling with anticipation. She was leaning into him now, and he could feel her hot breath against his neck. Disgust mingled with resignation in his mind; if she wasn't going to have her satisfaction from him in one way, she'd find others. He should've known. "You should be proud."

"Hrm. Shouldn't we be getting on with what we're here for?"

"The King and his men are trapped and frightened," she said into his ear, following her words by a quick nip on his earlobe. That time he couldn't quite stop himself from jumping; it had been a hell of a long time, and he'd been fighting with this woman for months and secretly daydreaming about stuff like this. Or not so secretly, probably; women always seemed to know, even the ones who weren't goddesses in disguise. "And we must wait for them to arrive and witness my victory. We have ample time."

Her victory. Of course.

"Hmph. Yeah." He shut his eyes again, submitting to her demands, if only for the moment.

\---

_"Sir Arngrim?"_

"Yeah?" He'd stopped correcting Lawfer long ago; if he was that determined to treat him like an equal and not a dirty mercenary, well, whatever. "What is it?"

"Merely something that I've always wondered," the blond kid said, panting slightly. Not that Arngrim blamed him; he had to be tougher than he looked if he could march in that armor at all. "What is that mark on your upper arm? I'd never seen its like before."

"That? Eh," he said, feeling a sudden twist of discomfort in his gut. He shook it off; he was just tired after the battle. Couldn't wait to get a decent meal and a couple of tankards of ale once they got back to Artolia. "Nothin'. Just a birthmark."


End file.
